The red line
by potterbite
Summary: When you fall in love, a red line appears on your wrist - and if that love is reciprocated, the mark turns black. Emma has had a red mark, but never has it turned black before.


**A/N: This is from a prompt that went "pretending to hate each other au." Now, I can't do proper hate, even fake, with my OTP so it became more like annoyance. I also took the liberty of combining the prompt with something that crossed my dash; "AU where you get a red line on your wrist when you fall in love, and the mark turns black when that love is reciprocated. When that other person dies, you are left with a scar." I really enjoyed writing this!**

* * *

The day the red line appeared on Emma's wrist for the first time, she had just turned 17.

Her and Neal had been together for quite a while, and it came as no shock to her when she noticed the new mark; she thought she'd finally understand all the joyful stories she'd heard about people getting the mark and how it would turn black if he reciprocated her love. And when they were old, if he died before her, she would have a precious scar to show the world that she had lived her life being loved.

In the beginning, she didn't freak out about the fact that her line kept glowing red, the color almost intensifying with every passing day – as did her love for Neal. But the line did not change color.

After two months she gathered whatever courage she could find to ask him if maybe the stories where wrong – it was the small stream of hope she clung to as if her life depended on it – and when he openly laughed at her, mockery all over his face, she understood it at last; love was poisonous, and hearts were made to be broken.

After that, she began to run, never settling in one place for longer than a couple of months, afraid to grow roots.

(Afraid to feel pain.)

She was 23 when a weak mark, almost pink in color, appeared on her wrist again. When it did, she spent the night cursing herself for staying too long in one place, for refusing to leave town after that stupid one-night stand, and for letting her emotions slip through the cracks again.

Graham was a very different person from Neal, and he treated her well. She stayed in Boston for selfish reasons only and rejoiced in the way his face lit up at the sight of her. They hadn't been together for long – less than four months – but her mark deepened in color until it was a very dark maroon, meaning he was starting to love her as she did him; her heart beat faster than she would've thought possible when she went looking for him, so _happy_ – finally having found something that could last.

She never made it in time.

Graham was hit by a bus as he was crossing the busy street at rush-hour and died instantly. Emma was convinced a part of her died that day too, and she promised herself to not repeat the same mistake; to never fall in love again. The mark turned back to red again, leaving no scar behind and didn't vanish completely until two years later.

She arrived in Storybrooke the day after her 28th birthday with plans to leave before the month was up. What she had not foreseen, though, was how different such a small town was from all the big cities she'd lived in – and how kind people could be.

She hit it off with Mary-Margaret instantly, feeling drawn to her in a way she hadn't experienced before, and moved in with her and her husband David less than three weeks later. Emma kept telling herself it was just a temporary solution, much more convenient than staying at the run-down hotel on Main Street, and that she'd just stay another month. And another. _And another_; before she knew it, she'd been in Storybrooke for over six months – the longest she'd stayed in a place since she were together with Neal.

She got the job as the sheriff in town and actually enjoyed life. She wasn't sure how much she dared to let her friends in, but did her best to let down the walls as much as possible, hoping it would be enough for them.

She loved the small town fiercely, and caught herself thinking of a future there; if she should get that apartment on Second Street to get out of the way from Mary-Margaret and David; if she should buy noodles in family packs instead of the single packs she'd always bought because she never had a chance to finish it all before she moved again; if she should buy some paintings to hang in her room. To Emma, it was all very overwhelming to suddenly after all this time feel as if she belonged somewhere, surrounded by people she liked, and maybe even loved.

The one thing – _or person_ – she just couldn't stand was Killian Jones.

He owned the only coffee shop there were in town, apparently having bought it from the old lady that ran it before – and damn, he sure knew his way around the coffee maker – but Emma couldn't stand the sight of him.

No, that was a lie. The sight of him was beautiful; black hair, scruff, and a lethal smile. But he had a way of creeping up under her skin, annoying her just for the hell of it.

(She could tell he enjoyed it.)

It was such a day, seven months after she moved to town, when the coffee machine at home broke – and pulled the fuse in the entire building as it did – and she had to drag herself to Granny's.

(Apparently, Killian didn't want to change the name even after the old lady passed away and Emma couldn't figure out if that made her annoyed or just made him sweeter.)

Morning caffeine was as crucial to Emma as air, but that didn't mean she had to expose herself to Killian all alone, so she dragged David with her, who happily followed since he loved coffee, Killian and teasing. Not necessarily in that order. (Mary Margaret refused to indulge their behavior, and said it reminded her of the children in her class.)

Sure, Emma saw Killian every now and then, bickering about small things that always left her with a smile and a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, but she did try her best to steer clear of his way as much as possible, figured that he felt the same. But somehow, in the last two months, she had found herself outside Granny's more often than not, which had escalated to her becoming a regular there every afternoon at her break from work.

Her grin – from laughing at David's joke about the mayor acting like an evil queen – faltered the moment they came inside Granny's, since Killian was the only one working. She had hoped one of his employees would be there too – like Ruby; Emma adored Ruby.

David went straight up to the counter and plopped himself down on one of the chairs.

"Hey," he said to Killian with a grin. "Busy morning?"

"It's alright," Killian replied with a sly grin over at Emma. "Things tend to slow down when the sheriff show up."

She rolled her eyes as she sat down next to David. "Don't worry, I won't make a habit out of it."

He continued as if she hadn't even spoken. "The _usual_ I presume?" he asked, and Emma knew it was just to get a reaction out of her.

"Yes," she muttered childishly, and felt more than heard David laugh beside her.

"I'll take a regular coffee. Black," he told Killian, who started working on their orders instantly. Once he had their back to them, Emma noticed Killian was wearing much more clothes than he normally did; he wore a t-shirt almost the entire year round, but now – in _may_ – he had switched to a shirt with long sleeves that covered the better part of his hand as well (his left hand gone since an old accident, according to the sources Emma had talked to. Not that she talked to other people about Killian. Much.)

"Cold?" she asked, because she simply couldn't help herself. He didn't turn around, and only gave a small shrug in response. "Well excuse me, Jack Frost." So maybe she wanted to provoke him on purpose. Not that she'd ever admit to it.

He turned around, carrying their beverages on a small tray, and gave her a loop-sided smile that made her heart skip a beat. "No clean t-shirts."

_Oh_, she thought as she felt her mouth take the shape of a small 'o'. Killian dove into a conversation about sailing with David, and Emma tuned it out as much as she could, because she had other things on her mind suddenly – like why Killian would lie about such a simple thing as his shirt.

.

She came back the morning after, since the machine at home still didn't work, and saw that Killian again wore a long-sleeved shirt. She frowned at it, but didn't comment; he teased her surprisingly little and almost seemed to hold his distance. She left wondering why she felt so strange.

.

She kept returning every morning, and again on the afternoons as she usually did, and he kept wearing his shirts, stubbornly refusing to talk about it. At one point, two weeks after he had started to act strange, she became so curious she stopped him from the other side of the counter with her hand, laying it on top of his. Once he looked at her, she wasn't sure what she had meant to say and found herself just gazing back into his eyes – _drowning_.

She woke up the next day and finally understood why she had been feeling so strange for the past few weeks. Had she not suppressed the feelings for so long, maybe she would've figured it out sooner, recognized the signs. As it was, she didn't, and she stared at her wrist until she was one hundred percent sure she wasn't imagining it; the mark, however, didn't quite look the way she was used to.

.

"What the hell, Killian?!" Emma burst through the door to Granny's before he had even opened, waving her wrist in the air.

"Wha – " He froze mid-sentence, in what would've been a very comical sight in any other situation, when he saw what she was showing him; the mark on her wrist. Only, it wasn't bright red this time – _it was black_. He looked down at his own arm for a moment, before using his mouth to drag the sleeve up to his elbow; he kept staring at his wrist and made no indication of wanting to speak, so Emma continued.

"Imagine my surprise when the mark shows up on me, after all these years I've sworn to never let it happen again, and for the first time in my life _it isn't red!_" She paced back and forth around the tables, too on edge to stand still. "No, it just skips red and goes straight to pitch black. So excuse me for repeating myself, but what the hell, Killian?!" She wasn't sure if she was upset with him for not telling her how he felt, with herself for letting it happen again or just scared shitless of the entire thing. She guessed option number three was the most likely one.

He tilted his head as he looked at her. "Well, lass, I don't hate you."

"I know you don't, you moron. For how long?"

"I got the mark two weeks ago, but I guess it's been in the cards for a while." He shrugged, probably trying to act nonchalant about the whole ordeal and she had to bite the inside of her cheek not to scream – how could he be so calm about this? She wanted to run as fast as her legs could take her, but at the same time she wanted to laugh because it was finally happening, and all the stories she'd heard seemed so far from true. Granted, had it been anyone but her, they would probably jump straight into the other person's arms, not ever looking back. But all she felt was – well, panic.

What's to say he wouldn't die on her, too? There were a million ways to go and not whole hell of a lot anyone could do about it if death decided it was your time to go. And if she _did_ let herself feel what her entire body already knew so much it practically ached to come out, how would her heart survive it if he left? Sure, she would pick up the pieces and keep on fighting because that's what she did, but would it ever feel alright again? To smile? To touch? To _breathe_?

"Didn't you see it change this morning?"

He gave her a small smile. "I have only looked at it once; when I got it. I've been on this road before, and it's too painful to let yourself look. To hope."

And she realized he was just as scared as she was. Relieved, a laugh escaped her. He raised an eyebrow at her in question, and she shook her head.

"It's just – I thought I couldn't stand you because you were so annoying, not because I felt something for you."

"It's probably a little bit of both, don't you think?" he replied easily and she could only agree. The line was very thin between love and – well, annoyance.

Silence fell between them, and Emma wasn't quite sure what to do next – did he want her to leave? To stay and chat? Take her upstairs? Her mind sped up.

As she thought about it all, he picked up a cloth and got out from behind the counter; he started wiping the tables, beginning as far away as possible from her. She figured he would want her to leave, but her legs were frozen under her as if telling her it would be better to stay put. So she stood there, watching him move about the place comfortably.

When he was finished with the table closest to her he put the cloth down and came to stand in front of her.

"What do you want me to do here?" he asked, scratching himself behind his right ear. Was he – nervous?

She couldn't think of an answer to give him, so instead she surged forward and met his lips with her own, finding courage in his sudden shyness. A surprised huff left him, and Emma drew back just a little bit, waiting for him to respond; he caught her bottom lip with his teeth to stop her. Dimly, she understood the difference now, with kissing someone who had the other half of your black mark and kissing someone who didn't share your bright red one. It was so much better than all the stories said it would be, in a way she hadn't been prepared for; how it made her forget all her fears she'd built up around her during the years, or how easy even a simple thing as breathing felt.

As they drifted apart, slowly, he laid his forehead on hers and blew out a wide breath. The mark tingled, and with a grin, Emma intertwined their fingers.

She'd probably stay in Storybrooke for a long time.


End file.
